


For Your Entertainment

by v_greyson (greyson)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyson/pseuds/v_greyson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur gets paid to smack Eames around.  He punches Eames in the face for free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> For kink_bingo 2010 amnesty: smacking/slapping, bondage (held down), and free square: prostitution. Millions of thanks to Meghan and Kat for expert advice, relentless cheerleading, and saving me from grammatical disasters.
> 
> __
> 
> There is also a [podfic read by anatsuno](http://anatsuno.dreamwidth.org/938304.html).

The first thing the guy says, after Arthur sits down across from him in the low-lit booth, is "Let me see your hands." Arthur offers them across the table palms down, holding them above the small candle. The guy examines them, turning one over and then the other. Arthur is acutely aware of the scars on his right knuckles, older ones and new pink skin that's just healing, the callouses on the palms of his hands, the unevenness of his nails, feeling self-conscious in a way he hasn't in a while. This guy is notorious for rejecting almost everyone the agency sends out, and Arthur figures he's about to become the latest to be sent back.

"You'll do fine," the guy says, releasing Arthur's hands. Arthur tries not to let his shock show on his face. "I'm Eames."

Arthur can't quite resist smirking. "Okay."

"And your name?" His eyes are blue, but catch the dim light in a strange, flickering way.

"Arthur."

The guy - Eames - sits back in the booth, swirling the ice cubes in the bare millimeter of liquor left in his glass. "Do you want a drink before we go upstairs?" he offers, after a moment. Arthur shakes his head. "Well, then," Eames says. "After you."

\--

"I hear you want to be pushed around," Arthur says, loosening his tie.

Eames nods. "You can hit me with an open hand anywhere you like," he says, as he folds his shirt over the back of the desk chair. "Shoving, hair pulling, all that's fine."

“What about backhanding?” Arthur asks, accompanying it with a demonstrative gesture.

Eames swallows, looking a little flushed. “That’s fine.”

"Is that it?" Arthur asks, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt.

"I like to be restrained, but don't tie me to anything."

Arthur hesitates for a moment, staring vaguely into the middle distance and thinking about bending Eames' arms up behind his back, before saying, "Yeah, okay. Do you have a safeword?”

“Pineapple,” Eames says. “Is yours the same one your agency uses?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “Red.”

"Do you have anything else for me?" Eames asks, turning around. Arthur can see that his tattoos wrap around onto his chest, and he spends a moment distracted before he manages to focus on the question.

"What?" he says stupidly. "No. They told you the rules when you called."

"How long do I have you for?"

"All night, if you want."

Eames smiles, a little curl of his mouth, but his eyes are narrow. "Doesn't that cost extra?"

Shrugging, Arthur snaps his tie free from his collar. "It's your money."

\--

There's a little ceramic dish on top of the dresser where Arthur sets his cufflinks, with clinks that sound sharp in the silent room. Arthur leans against the dresser and studies Eames, reclined on the bed in his black briefs.

"Take off your underwear," Arthur says, rolling up his left sleeve one methodical turn at a time. He's barefoot, but still otherwise dressed, button-up and vest and pants.

Eames quirks an eyebrow. "I thought I was supposed to tell you what to do," he says.

Arthur is at the bed in two swift steps, and he strikes Eames across the face with the back of his hand. Eames works his jaw, rubs his cheek, looks up at Arthur from under his eyelashes. His lips are parted, and Arthur pets at his mouth before delivering a stinging slap to Eames' ribs.

Eames' eyes are a little glazed, pupils dilated, and Arthur leans down over him, looming until Eames is flat on the bed, looking dazed.

"Good," Arthur says, and hooks his fingers under the elastic of Eames' briefs, pulling them down and off. He pauses, considering Eames' feet, before slapping the arch of Eames' left foot.

"Ah, fuck," Eames gasps, so Arthur does it again and watches Eames' fingers twist into the blanket.

Arthur moves up, hitting the pale inside of Eames' thigh. Slapping there makes Eames spread his legs and arch his back, so Arthur keeps going, alternating sides until both Eames’ thighs are flushed red and warm under his hand. He presses two fingers against the tender spot behind Eames’ balls, and Eames makes an incoherent noise, pushing down against Arthur's hand. Arthur curls his index finger inside Eames to the first knuckle. "Yeah?" he asks, meeting Eames' eyes.

"God, yes," Eames says. His mouth looks shiny and inviting, and Arthur wants to kiss him, so he does.

"I'll be back in a second," he says, pulling back, a little breathless. He's been half-hard since Eames took off his shirt, but he's put it aside to focus on - well, work, but now he lets himself take a second to stare at the breadth of Eames' shoulders, the red curve of his cock on his belly, the marks Arthur’s left with his hands. Arthur feels his arousal sharpen into something more needy, more present.

He retrieves his messenger bag from the floor, throws it on the bed and pulls things out - packets of lube, a long strip of condoms, a black latex glove - scattering them over the blanket. Eames is propped up on his elbows, watching, and Arthur considers for a moment before unbuttoning his vest, sliding it off and then stripping his suspenders off his shoulders, letting them hang.

Arthur lays a firm hit on Eames' belly, and another on his ribs, then twice in a row on his chest. At the end, Eames is gasping, face flushed. Arthur's palm is tingling and he's starting to sweat, the thick cotton of his shirt suddenly claustrophobic, stifling. He pulls the tails free, starts rushing through the buttons. Eames sits up and starts working on the buttons from the bottom up, and Arthur stops unbuttoning and puts his hands into Eames’ hair instead, making a fist with one hand and giving Eames a little shake.

Eames finishes Arthur's shirt and moves on to his pants, unhooking the clasp and undoing the button, sliding the zipper down and then pressing his face into the fabric over Arthur's cock. Arthur twists his hand in Eames' hair until Eames whimpers, then releases Eames and pushes him back, hard, sending Eames sprawling while Arthur finishes getting out of his clothes.

\--

Arthur gets Eames on his hands and knees, pushes Eames’ legs wide enough to reach between, and smacks Eames’ inner thighs, pausing unpredictably between the blows. Eames rocks forward with each hit, crying out when Arthur hits the same spot twice in a row. Arthur grabs Eames by the hip with one hand and uses his other to focus on Eames’ left thigh, covering the inside with bright red marks, hitting hard and fast until his hand starts to hurt. Then he switches to the other side, until Eames is moaning with every blow.

“You mark up so easily,” Arthur observes, grabbing at one of the packets of lube and the glove. He snaps it on and slicks up two fingers, working them into Eames and then using his free hand to smack Eames’ ass while he slides them in and out.

Starting to shake, Eames folds down onto his elbows, and Arthur pulls his fingers out before knocks Eames’ knees out from under him, leaving Eames sprawled flat on the bed. Something about Eames spread out and marked up makes Arthur feel a little unsteady, surprised by how much he likes it. Arthur thinks it’s how sincere Eames is - he’s not holding back but he’s not showing off, either, and Arthur has seen a lot of both. It’s nice to be with someone who’s into it, unreservedly but not obnoxiously.

Arthur throws the glove on the floor, puts on a condom and pours the rest of the lube on it. He holds Eames open with one hand as he pushes inside, Eames’ beaten skin flushed hot underneath Arthur’s hips. Arthur leans down, covering Eames with his body, wrapping his fingers in between Eames’ and pinning his hands down on either side of his head. "You want me to hold you down while I fuck you?" Arthur means for it to be a serious question, but it comes out filthy and low, said right into Eames' ear, a rhetorical tease, a guarantee. Eames tightens his grip on Arthur's hands, and Arthur rocks his hips down.

"Yes," Eames says, and gasps when Arthur sinks his teeth into the back of his neck. Arthur can't get very much leverage, but he drives his hips as much as he can, fucking Eames into the bed, keeping Eames' arms pinned, occasionally biting at the top of Eames' spine. He keeps going until he starts to get frustrated by his inability to thrust harder, and then he pulls out and manhandles Eames onto his back, slapping his thighs open and shoving back in, Eames' legs spread wide around Arthur’s hips.

Arthur leans down, gets one of Eames' arms above his head, uses his other hand to backhand Eames before smacking him on the side of his leg a few times. Eames puts his other hand up, where Arthur can get both his wrists in his hand. "That's good," Arthur says, "you're so good."

Eames' cock is red and wet at the tip, and Arthur jacks him fast and steady, until Eames is rocking against him frantically, shoulders pressed down into the bed, arched against Arthur's grip on his wrists. After a minute, though, Arthur regretfully lets go of Eames' arms so that he can give into his temptation to smack the white undersides of his biceps.

Eames keeps his arms above his head, which Arthur appreciates, and he rewards Eames by stroking his cheek roughly before hitting him across the chest. "Again," Eames gasps, and so Arthur keeps smacking him, haphazard and half-sloppy, twice, three times, and then Eames is tense all over, crying out and coming over Arthur's hand, clenching around Arthur so tightly that Arthur feels like the breath has been kicked out of his chest. He falls forward onto his hands, drives little noises out of Eames with a dozen more thrusts and finally loses it

He pulls out slowly, watching as Eames' eyes close, his face relaxed and content. Arthur wants to put his head down until it stops spinning, but he pushes himself to get off the bed and go into the bathroom. He goes through his usual post-fuck chores: flushing the used condom, drinking a glass of water, wiping himself down. He fills another glass of water and soaks a few washcloths for Eames.

By the time Arthur makes it back to the bed, Eames has curled up on his side, looking like he’s asleep. He stirs a little when Arthur sits down on the edge of the mattress, and makes a slightly disgruntled noise when Arthur pushes at Eames’ shoulder until Eames rolls over onto his back. Eames cracks an eye as Arthur swipes the warm washcloth over his belly, then jumps and hisses when Arthur lays one soaked in cold water over his chest. Arthur offers the other one, also cold. Eames takes it, his fingers still clumsy. "For your face," Arthur explains. Eames laughs a little, but drapes it over his face, settling back on the pillows.

Satisfied, Arthur starts getting his stuff together, putting the rest of the condoms back in his bag, pulling on his pants and sticking the cufflinks in his pocket.

"Leaving so soon?" Eames says mildly, peeking at him from under the washcloth.  
Arthur freezes, shirt in his hand. Eames hadn't seemed like a cuddler, but it wouldn't be the first time Arthur had misjudged.

"I can stay, if you want," Arthur says.

Eames waves him off. "I'll be useless for the rest of the night," he says. "You do good work."

Arthur grins. "I know."

"Can I ask for you again?"

"Of course," Arthur says.

\--

The second time, Eames brings a pair of leather gloves. Arthur pulls them on and flexes his fingers experimentally. They fit perfectly, like they were made for him, or chosen with great care, and Arthur has a vivid memory of sitting in the bar, holding his hands out over the table.

Hitting Eames with the gloves on makes his palm sting less, which means he can hit more times in a row. It's more difficult, though, to tell exactly how hard the blows are, so he spends more time studying Eames, watching for when his flinches deepen into frowns and backing off, coming back to the spots that make him moan-his thighs, the top of his chest.

Arthur likes the way Eames' skin feels through the gloves, impossibly smooth and warm, a little hotter where Arthur's raised red patches of overlapping palmprints. He spends a while smoothing his hands all over Eames, until Eames is twisting up into Arthur's grip desperately. “Quit squirming,” Arthur says, and when Eames doesn’t, Arthur flips Eames onto his stomach. Arthur twists Eames’ arm up, enough to be uncomfortable, putting his knee in Eames' back for good measure. Eames is warm, damp with sweat, and Arthur shifts a bit to find his balance, momentarily putting all of his weight down on Eames, making him exhale a deep, needy noise.

Arthur settles his weight on Eames' back and just kneels there, breathing deeply, until all the tension goes out of Eames. Then he flips Eames back over, smacks him across the cheek sharply as he settles astride Eames' chest, pinning Eames' arms to his sides with his legs. Eames pushes up against him, testing, and Arthur squeezes his thighs together and stays firm, smacking Eames again, this time on the other side of his face. Eames relaxes, eyes mostly closed, breathing fast and rough.

Arthur pushes up to his hands and knees. "I want to ride you," he says, holding Eames' chin in his hand, liking the way the leather gloves look against Eames’ flushed skin, red-blond stubble.

Eames' eyes are wide as he nods. His tongue presses out over his lips, and when he parts his lips like he's about to answer, Arthur pushes two gloved fingers inside his mouth. Eames eyes flutter and then close, and Arthur slaps him lightly on the cheek, almost fondly. "Look at me," Arthur says. Eames does, and Arthur is almost taken aback by the depth of Eames' want, written there on his face.

Arthur breaks away from Eames abruptly, pushing Eames flat on the bed with a hand on his chest when Eames moves like he might follow. "Stay," Arthur says. His voice sounds unfamiliar, scratchy and impatient. Arthur retrieves the condoms and lube from the nightstand, setting them on the mattress and then moving to unfasten the right glove.

Eames stops him, grabbing his wrist so tightly and quickly that Arthur barely stops himself from punching Eames in the head out of reflex. "If you don't want me to take the gloves off, then you have to open me up yourself," Arthur says.

"What a hardship," Eames says, smirking.

\--

Arthur settles himself on his back, legs spread, one knee bent. "There's a glove on the nightstand if you want it," Arthur says. "It's up to you." Eames rips open one of the packets and slicks his fingers bare.

The first finger is fine; the second makes Arthur sink his teeth into his lower lip, take a slow breath and consciously relax. When Eames leans closer, Arthur pulls him down with a hand on the back of his neck, licking into his mouth and then biting Eames' soft, full lower lip. Eames twists his fingers, and Arthur cries out, bucks up against him, then shoves at Eames' shoulder. "That's enough," he says, waiting for Eames to pull out and then wrapping his legs around Eames' waist and rolling them so he's on top again.

He gets a condom on Eames quickly, holds Eames’ cock steady while he pushes back onto it, his other hand digging into Eames’ chest. Arthur swears at the first push in, the head going past the tight ring of muscle, and then exhales slowly as Eames lifts his hips, slides the rest of the way in. “Fuck, I need - give me a second,” Arthur says, rocking a little, to get the feel of it. Eames is flush against him, and Arthur at first only wants to move an inch at a time, not wanting to give up the satisfying stretch and pressure of Eames inside him.

When he’s ready, Arthur rises up further and fucks down hard, bracing his hands against Eames’ chest, the leather making his palms a little slippery. He doesn’t bother to stop the noises he’s making, the increase in volume when he shifts the angle a little and manages to get it _right_ , so that Eames’ cock is lighting up his nerves like fireworks.

Arthur had Eames’ hands pinned under his knees, but Eames fights one hand free and reaches for Arthur’s cock. Arthur grabs his wrist and twists it away. “Not yet,” he says, and then holds Eames’ arm steady while he slaps the inside of his forearm. Eames hisses and Arthur does it one more time before releasing him.

It’s hard to get enough brainpower together to smack Eames and ride him at the same time, which Arthur realizes too late. He keeps getting distracted by how Eames feels inside him, thick and hot and slick. Then he notices his focus drifting and has to snap it back, but he can’t get it together enough to do anything but land a few scattered hits on Eames’ stomach. Fortunately, Eames seems pretty distracted himself, hips rising off the bed to meet Arthur, a little frown of concentration between his eyebrows.

“Okay,” Arthur says, grabbing Eames’ hand and pulling it up. Eames gets the idea, fisting Arthur’s cock and working his hand with a little twist at the end.

Arthur closes his eyes and rides Eames faster, throwing his head back and gasping for air as Eames strokes him steadily, finally slamming down one more time as he comes. “Fuck,” he says, opening his eyes and looking at Eames, who has sweat on his forehead, and a red mark on his cheek that’s starting to swell a little. He’s breathing shallowly through his open mouth, eyes dark and intense.

Arthur tries to rise up enough to work himself back down on Eames again, but his legs are rubbery, non-cooperative. He climbs off Eames and gets on his back, then pulls Eames down on top of him. Eames lines himself up and pushes in hard, making Arthur gasp.

At first, Arthur’s not good for much besides making encouraging noises and wrapping his hands in Eames’ hair, but after a minute he starts to come back to himself. He smacks Eames’ ass, which gets an appreciative noise out of Eames, so Arthur keeps scattering blows everywhere he can reach. Eames rocks into Arthur faster, finally going still and gasping against Arthur’s collarbone.

Arthur strokes Eames’ back until he pulls out and flops down on the bed, looking content and thoroughly worn-out. Arthur starts to get up, not quite succeeding at biting back the small noise that escapes when he tries to move too quickly.

“Stay for a moment,” Eames mumbles, eyes still closed, the lightest brush of his fingertips holding Arthur back. “It’ll wait.”

\--

The third time he meets Eames, they don't bother with the formalities in the hotel bar. Eames leaves a key for him with reception, and Arthur unlocks the door to find Eames sitting on the bed, channel-surfing.

"American telly is awful," Eames says, switching the TV off. Arthur shifts from foot to foot, not sure what to do next, and then he catches sight of the silver briefcase beside Eames.

"Is that-" he blurts, before he can stop himself. It's been a long time since he saw a PASIV, but he still startles awake almost every night falling, falling, falling back into consciousness.

Eames pulls the suitcase onto his lap, cracks it open to reveal the mechanism. "It's a PASIV. It stands for Portable Automated Somnacin-"

"I know what it is," Arthur says. "Why the fuck do you have one? Where did you even get it?"

"I was hoping you could teach me how to use it," Eames says.

"You know who I am," Arthur says, fighting to stay steady against a wave of realization. "You knew this whole time."

"I knew some things about you," Eames hedged. "I had a picture of you, and I knew your name. I knew you were involved in the US military's incarnation of the PASIV program. I knew you left suddenly and vanished thoroughly. It took me a while to run you to ground."

Arthur swallows, his jaw locked tight.

"I didn't expect that you would be telling your real name to men you fucked for money," Eames says, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "That was a surprise."

Arthur punches him in the face.

\--

"Ow," Eames says, for the twentieth time, feeling along the bruise rising on his cheek.

"I didn't hit you that hard." Arthur scowls, pacing at the foot of the bed, where Eames is sitting with a towel full of ice held to his face. "Stop poking it, you'll make it worse."

"I can't believe you punched me."

"I can't believe it took you this long to tell me you were here because you had a fucking PASIV!" Arthur yells.

Eames is unfazed.

"Christ," Arthur mumbles, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "This is such a mess."

"Why?" Eames asks, genuinely curious.

"You should have told me why you were really here. You intentionally put me at a disadvantage."

"I apologize," Eames says. "I didn’t mean to mislead you."

"Also, it's my fucking name. I can tell it to anyone if I want to." Arthur stabs his finger at Eames for emphasis.

Eames raises the hand not holding the icepack in surrender. "I understand."

"So what's your offer?" Arthur asks, crossing his arms. "You want me to teach you to use a PASIV?”

"I have a job offer with a six-figure payout," Eames says, setting the ice down on the bed and leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. "I'll give you thirty percent of the take if you can teach me enough to do the job."

Arthur stops walking and stares down at him. "What kind of job?" Arthur asks.

"Extraction," Eames says. "I've been retained as a thief."

Arthur looks at him disbelievingly. "And you signed up even though you have no idea how to work a PASIV."

Eames shrugs. "I'm good at improvisation."

"I'll do it for half the take."

"Forty percent."

"Forty-five," Arthur counters. "You won't be able to do it at all without me."

"You're not the only person who could teach me, you know. I could find someone cheaper," Eames says, looking ostentatiously bored.

"You don't want cheap," Arthur says. "You want good. And I'm the best. Forty-five percent of the take."

"Forty-two," Eames says, narrow-eyed.

"Done," Arthur says. "There's one other thing. I have a rule that people can only pay me for one thing at a time."

Eames shrugs. "Seems reasonable."

Arthur feels his shoulders loosen as he pulls his phone and hits the button to call _Work_. "It's me. He's a no-show. Cancel it. I'm taking tonight off."

When he turns back, Eames is holding a lead from the PASIV with an inquiring look on his face. "I had to get off the clock," Arthur explains, as he accepts the lead and takes an alcohol swab out of the case. "The other clock." Eames is laughing at him, and Arthur rolls his eyes, wincing as he sticks himself with the IV. “Shut up and lie down,” he says.

“That sounds a lot like the other clock, darling,” Eames drawls.

“You think you’re so funny,” Arthur mutters, getting the timer set and hitting the plunger to start the countdown before he has to be subjected to any more of Eames’ biting wit.

\--

"I've been here for almost a year," Arthur says, laying on the bed with his hands folded on his chest while Eames packs up the PASIV. "How long were you looking?"

Eames looks shifty as he detaches the needles and drops them into the sharps container. "A while."

Arthur stares at him. "You're pretty awful at tracking people down."

"I found you eventually, didn't I?"

"Not before you went through half the hookers in Vegas," Arthur says dismissively. Eames looks up at him with wide eyes, and Arthur laughs. "Yeah, I know about that. We called you 'Goldilocks.'"

" _Goldilocks_?"

"This one was too tall, that one was too blond - you were looking for me, weren't you? You thought you'd just keep calling until I turned up."

Eames straightens up and crosses his arms. "Well, it worked."

"You should take me with you on the job, as a consultant," Arthur says. "I can find things. People. Information. Faster than you can." Eames still looks skeptical, so Arthur sits up and fixes him with an intense stare. "You have a job now, but how are you going to find the next one?"

A hint of a smile quirks Eames' mouth, and Arthur knows he's won. "I imagine I'll be asking you."

"Do we have a deal, Mr. Eames?"

Eames grins smugly and offers his hand. “Yes. I look forward to the beginning of our long-term relationship.”

Arthur looks incredulously at Eames’ hand, up at his sly smirk, and then punches him in the face again.

\--

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic of) For Your Entertainment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/243725) by [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno)




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